


Allowing Anger

by surreal_eyes



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Comfort, Fluff, Katsuki Yuuri Speaks Russian, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:14:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27671198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surreal_eyes/pseuds/surreal_eyes
Summary: Victor doesn't get -angry-... so when he does, Yuuri has to investigate.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov
Comments: 20
Kudos: 368





	Allowing Anger

Victor isn’t an angry person.

After 6 months of living, working, training, and basically breathing together, that’s something Yuuri has learned. Victor is snarky, passive aggressive, and can be downright cruel with his words. He’s fiercely protective of those he considers his, and backs that up with verbal strength and stoic presence. He masks it all behind biting smiles and well-planned words.

When he’s upset, he retreats and broods, quiet and solitary. He might throw snarky half-answers at press conferences, all while wearing a bright smile. But he’s not… angry, not in the traditional sense. He doesn’t yell and throw things like Yurio or cry and break down like Yuuri.

It takes a while for Yuuri to realize this, but once he does, a lot of things click into place… such as Victor’s first day in Japan. Quips about not eating katsudon and calling him piggy were his version of _anger_. It’s one more piece of the Nikiforov puzzle that Yuuri’s starting to slowly put together.

(Later on, he’ll realize _why_ Victor was so angry. For now, well, he’s still trying to figure that out.)

It’s a chilly day when another piece of the puzzle falls into place. They broke after an afternoon session because Yuuri popped a blister and instead of letting him work through the pain, Victor smiled sweetly and barred him from the ice. He’s home, soaking his foot, mourning lost training time and obsessively repeating his free skate music in the hopes he can osmosis it or something.

Mari taps on his bedroom door and sticks her head in with a look of confusion, and says “Something’s wrong with Victor,”

“What?” Yuuri asks because they have only been home for an hour and he was perfectly fine at the rink.

“I don’t know. He was yelling on the phone in French and then stormed out towards the beach.” She pauses, looking confused. “He looked like he wanted to hit someone.”

And _that_ , that has Yuuri scrambling out of bed and reaching for a towel to dry off his foot because Victor _doesn’t get angry like that_ and if he is, well, that means something is _wrong._

“Thanks, Mari.” He scoots past her and hobble-walks down the hall, remembering only at the last second that he should, like, put some socks on or something. He hobbles back, scoots past her again, ignores her somewhat amused look, and grabs socks out of his drawer.

She wanders off, assured he’ll handle… whatever is going on… and he makes his way downstairs, tucks his feet in his shoes with only a token wince, and heads to the beach. He doesn’t run, but he could absolutely give power-walking moms at the Detroit mall some competition.

Victor’s on the beach, and sure enough, he’s _angry_ , practically vibrating with it. He’s standing on a rocky jetty, picking up stones and hurling them towards the water with curses in Russian. Yuuri hangs back, watching, his heart aching. He’s never seen Victor like this. It’s painful and _wrong_ and he’s not entirely sure what to do.

Victor lobs another rock and it splashes down a few feet into the surf. This time, his curses are in French. His fists clench at his sides as the wind whips his silver hair. Yuuri thinks he looks almost ethereal with the churning surf behind him and darkening sky above him.

Another rock goes into the water, then the Russian slumps, dropping to the rocky sand with a grunt. He ends up sitting cross-legged, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. Yuuri can see him trembling even from this far back and he’s not sure if it’s from anger or the temperature. It’s cold, especially when the wind bites, and only going to get colder as the sun sets. The Russian isn’t even wearing a coat, just his thin on-ice warmup jacket.

Yuuri can’t hover anymore. He makes his way carefully forward, picking through the rocks and holes. This part of the beach is anything but smooth. He sees the moment Victor hears him – his shoulders go tense, he swipes at his eyes (and is he crying? Yuuri wants to whine, because nothing that beautiful should be made to cry) and runs a hand through his hair.

Yuuri settles next to him, adopting the same seated pose, and just waits. Victor glances over. He’s got a mask in place – some sort of lazy smile that doesn’t fit with what Yuuri just witnessed. He’s showing too much teeth. There’s no little crinkle at his eyes. It’s so fake that Yuuri wonders how he ever could have been fooled by it in the past.

Yuuri looks away, uncomfortable with it, and curls his knees up to his chest. Victor makes a wounded noise and drops his head back in his hands.

They sit for a minute or two, neither speaking, until Victor lets out a shuddering sigh and reaches out. He hooks his hand around Yuuri’s elbow and tugs, gentle but firm. When Yuuri looks at him, the mask is gone, replaced by _Victor_ , sad and upset and pleading.

Something else he’s learned in the 6 months of living with Victor: He likes touch, craves it, but rarely allows it. Yuuri seems to be the exception; he seeks him out, always with a hand on his or draped over his shoulder or pressed against his side. It’s like Victor thinks he’s some sort of safe harbor, a place to rest, and when Yuuri’s anxiety isn’t screaming at him, he loves it. He loves that Victor can let go with him.

So Yuuri opens his arms, opens his legs, and nods. Victor crawls over and somehow manages to fit in the space, his back against Yuuri’s chest and long legs stretched out in front of them. Yuuri loops his arms around his chest, presses his forehead against the space between his shoulder blades, and _feels_ the tension in Victor’s body soften little by little.

“I’m sorry.” Victor says after a moment, his fingers tracing up and down Yuuri’s arm. Yuuri makes an understanding noise against his back and if they were a little more intimate, if he was brave, maybe he’d press a kiss to Victor’s shoulder… but he’s not, he’s a coward, so he rubs his cheek there instead. Victor relaxes a little more, leaning into the touch.

“I’m here if you want to talk about it.” Yuuri offers, even though he’s almost sure he’ll be denied.

“Not yet.” And that’s about what Yuuri expected; Victor is careful with his words, almost neurotically so, planning out conversations and making sure he has the perfect words for the situation. He almost never speaks solely from emotion, which Yuuri assumes is due to his heavy media presence. It’s easier to think before you speak, and get in that habit, that speak out of turn and have it plastered on the internet.

It’s admirable, and he understands it, but sometimes… sometimes Yuuri just wants Victor to talk. To crack and spill like an egg, getting it all out, in the hopes that healing can start.

So he pushes. Just a little.

“It’s okay to be angry.”

“I’m not-" Victor pauses, sighs, leans his head back against Yuuri’s shoulder. His hair tickles. Yuuri tilts his head, gives him more space to rest, and ghosts his lips over silver strands. If he were braver…

“Tell me.” He almost orders, firm but kind. Victor makes a noise, acknowledging, but takes time to gather his thoughts before replying.

“Nobody thinks I can do this. Coaching, I mean.” Victor mutters after a moment, quietly, darkly. “Nobody. Yakov, little Yura, even Chris…” He trails off and grunts. “They make fun of me, ask me if I’m done playing. Even Chris, Yuuri.”

And, _ah._ There it is. Victor’s best friend, the one other person he might open up to, is doubting him, and it hurts. Yuuri makes a humming sound and squeezes his arms around Victor’s middle. The Russian’s breath hitches like he’s trying not to cry. Yuuri resists the urge to fire off a very angry text to the Swiss skater.

“They’re wrong.” Yuuri murmurs and it gets a choked, harsh laugh out of Victor.

“I know they’re wrong.” He responds. His fingers on Yuuri’s arm clench, then release. “I _know_ they’re wrong. I know what I’m doing – I’ve been helping Yakov for years, little Yura is practically my creation, I know the techniques and policies and the paperwork and… and…” He trails off again, his fingers spasming like he’s itching to throw more rocks. Yuuri slides his own between them, an anchor, and Victor curls his fingers around his palm like a lifeline.

“You’re a good coach.” Yuuri assures, rubbing his thumb across Victor’s knuckle. “They just can’t see it yet.”

“All they see is the selfish pretty boy, abandoning his career for a romp.” Victor spits out, lifting his head to gaze out over the surf. “The playboy, the media icon, the perfect living legend. That’s all they want to see. Gold medal after gold medal, interview after interview, photoshoots. It’s never occurred to them that there’s more there than quad flips and pretty costumes.”

And that’s the other problem. Victor, _his_ Victor (Yuuri’s mind carefully glosses over his possessiveness) versus Victor Nikiforov, the living legend. Over time, Yuuri’s learned that they are two very, very different people. The more he learns about _his_ Victor, the more he’s convinced Victor Nikiforov is a complete work of fiction. It's jarring to remember they're the same person when Victor is like this - raw and emotional with no masks, hiding on an abandoned beach and clinging to Yuuri.

“I see you.” Yuuri whispers. Victor jerks in his arms, like it’s a physical blow, then laughs again with no sense of humor.

“You and your posters, yeah?” He responds, then almost immediately apologizes. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair.” And it hurts, but Yuuri shrugs it off. Sure, later his anxiety might put those words on repeat until he breaks down, but for now, he’s aware it’s not about _him_. Besides, he wanted emotional responses and now he’s getting them.

“Me and the man in front of me right now.” He retorts, “The one who’s afraid to be angry even though it’s justified.” Victor has nothing to say to that, so he continues, “I meant it when I said I just wanted you to be you. I don’t need the living legend or the masks or you to hide your emotions away under layers of media training. You don’t have to do that with me. I’ll love you anyway, no matter what.”

It just… slips out, and Yuuri finds he doesn’t regret it, even as anxiety and embarrassment runs through his body like ice. Victor makes a sound, a sort of half-grunt half-squeak, but doesn’t address it. He just leans his head back again, gentle against Yuuri’s shoulder, and closes his eyes.

Then Victor mumbles, in Russian, “I love you, too.”

It’s entirely likely that Victor thinks he’s being smooth and Yuuri doesn’t understand, but Yuuri has a Russian language minor from college (mostly because he knew the language from obsessively translating Victor’s interviews, so the intro classes were pretty much easy A’s, and his competitions in Russia fulfilled the travel requirements).

He hasn’t told Victor this yet, though. Maybe he never will if it gets him secretive devotions like this.

Yuuri decides screw it and presses a soft kiss against Victor’s jaw, right under his ear. He can see the edge of the Russian’s smile before he ducks his head to hide his blush. Tension bleeds slowly into comfort as the sky goes pink and orange, sunset threatening. It’s still cold, but Victor is a warm heat against him, and he lets out a sigh and closes his eyes and just lets himself _be_ , for a few forgotten moments on the beach.

“Thank you.” Victor whispers.

“We’ll show them, Vitya.” Using the diminutive is a risk – he hasn’t technically been offered it, but he figures it’s a step below ‘I love yous’. Victor lets out a sigh that sounds pleased, and he squeezes Yuuri’s hand before bringing it up to press a kiss against his knuckles.

“Yeah.” He answers, a hint of steel in his tone. “We will.”


End file.
